


Snow Queen

by dagonst



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dagonst/pseuds/dagonst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark bends the knee to the new Targaryen at Winterfell, with all the proper words and everything they want her to say, but the queen wants more than blind obedience.  For the prompt: negotiation, alliance, treaty</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for all the books and speculation for the rest.

Sansa had just reclaimed Winterfell when the raven came that she must bend the knee. None of the titles it gives Sansa are hers, and she is ill at ease even before the dragon passes over.

It breathes flame into the sky, and the warmth of it hits her - only warm, but she gasps and steps back, catching at Sandor Clegane’s arm. The dragon lands at the end of the snowfield and coils there; its rider, the Targaryen woman, jumps down and walks toward them.

“Go on, little bird,” Clegane pushes her forward to greet the queen.

Danerys Targaryen is barely older than she is. Milk and snow, with violet eyes and worn leathers. She smiles warmly, and Sansa finds herself smiling back in relief.

“You are welcome to Winterfell, your grace,” she says, before dropping to one knee. In front of scarce two dozen witnesses, Sansa Stark pledges fealty as Lady Stark, as the lord of Winterfell, and as the Queen in the North. 

* * *

The hot springs are the one thing left in Winterfell that hasn’t been ruined or spoiled. Sansa shows them to Danerys Targaryen, who seems taken by them. “They spoke of these in the north. I would bathe here, when we have time.”

“You may now, your grace, if it please you.”

“Attend me then, Sansa. I would speak with you.”

Sansa stammers, and sends for sheets and fresh clothes; Danerys strips and lowers herself into the pool without a trace of self-consciousness, and beckons her in. Sansa blushes, and ducks into the water as swiftly as she can.

“I had heard that you walked through fire.” The queen’s skin is smooth and white, and untouched. A poetic flourish, them, though she first heard the story from spies.

“I joined my husband on his pyre. That was the fire that hatched my dragons.” The queen smiles at her. “All my hair burnt off, and I was black with soot. Do I frighten you, Sansa?”

“No, your grace. Your dragon frightens me,” she admits. The queen herself only looks impossible.

“They frightened me as well. Now I have the lords of Westeros to tame. I am only a young woman and not wise in the ways of war,” Danerys Stormborn says, “but it seems to me that, having conquered, I may alter their rules.”

“That is so, your grace,” Sansa says.

The queen takes her hand. “Please, Sansa, call me Danerys. I had a brother, and I loved him well. But I was made a queen, and could not change my place. Do you understand me?”

“No, your grace.” But she does. The queen means Bran and Rickon, and Winterfell. 

“The dragons are my claim to the throne, but I mean to extend the Dornish rule through all the kingdoms, and make Winterfell yours by law. I must have a Warden of the North, and lords for Winterfell.” 

“You may do as you please, your grace.” 

“What I hear of you pleases me, and I would set the Starks over Winterfell again if I can. It would please me if you would rule the north in my name.”

But not her brothers. Bran will never have children, and Rickon is half-wild - but neither can Sansa take their place. “I do not mean to marry again. I can have no children, your grace, with no husband.” It is terrifying to say it out loud, but then it is done.

Danerys sits back. “The one they call your wolf, or the Hound - I could raise him high enough to reach you.”

Sansa has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “Oh no - please your grace, no.” And then she must explain somehow. “He wouldn’t even be knighted. And the children would be Clegane, not Stark.” 

Danerys smiles, and Sansa wonders if she had already thought of that. “Then Lady Stark will have no lord, only a queen.”

“Yes. Please your grace.” 

“Still, your wolf can give you sons. Your queen can give you heirs.” Danerys’ hand is warm on her belly and Sansa flushes scarlet. 

“My queen,” she agrees, and the queen smiles brilliantly. “Danerys.”

The queen’s kiss is soft, and Sansa is not quite prepared for it, but then they are kissing and more than kissing. Sansa dares to touch her, fingers on her shoulder, trailing down to circle her breast. She wonders if there are no limits to the license she has been given. But of course there are: keep the peace, show mercy. Please the queen.

“I had a maid once who was trained in the arts of love. Sometimes one needs no man, only a friend. I hope we are to be friends, Sansa Stark.”

“Yes, your - Danerys.”

Then the queen drops her hand lower, between Sansa’s legs, and she is touching the queen as well. Danerys’ skin is cooler than the water, and silk-soft despite the wars and the fire.

When they leave the bath, both grinning, Sansa’s skin is quite red and the queen is still pale white. “Danerys the Unboiled,” Sansa says irreverently. 

“Danerys the Unfrozen,” she corrects, and they both laugh.


End file.
